


One of Us

by NazyJayne (MissKira)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue, a bit of a case, and a bunch of whump, mostly fighting a bad guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24486091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissKira/pseuds/NazyJayne
Summary: After the floor falls out from under them at a crime scene, plunging three member of Major Crimes into the darkness, it's a race to rescue them before the killer they're chasing finds them first.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 85
Collections: Prodigal Whump Fic Exchange - Spring 2020





	One of Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Machancheese](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Machancheese/gifts).



Rain has been falling for  _ weeks,  _ now, thick sheets drenching the city until it rises in the streets, rivers in the gutter heading for the sewers. Sunlight hasn’t been able to reach Manhattan for just as long, and it’s affected the mood of every New Yorker walking the streets. Gone are any pleasantries; people have  _ fallen down _ after being body checked on the sidewalk. 

Dani Powell would be lying if she said there weren’t a few people she would have  _ loved _ to knock down; her shoulder is currently sporting a bruise the shape of Virginia from a particularly aggressive suit two days earlier while she was walking back to the station from her afternoon coffee run. She’d almost lost the tray of drinks, carefully carried with two hands, but just managed to call on college years of waitressing and balanced it, if not precociously, on one. 

The city’s in a mood today, too. It’s only eleven in the morning and it feels like dusk. Uncooperative hair has been pulled back into a ponytail, her hairstyle of the past two weeks. She dashes from where she’s parked to the empty, dilapidated house turned crime scene, thankful uniforms are keeping the area free of civilians. JT hops out next to her, climbing the steps into the residence at her side. He’s a constant she finds comforting, one she latches onto as they enter and the air becomes charged with tension as soon as they catch sight of Gil and, yes, there’s Bright at his side. 

She chances a look, as his attention is on Edrisa in the dining room she can’t yet see. He’s back in his suits, as pressed and expensive as always, a neon sign telling everyone to keep their distance. But his shoulders are just as stiff as the fabric over them, held high in place not by natural confidence, but  _ forced _ . The room is filled with officers who saw him walked into the precinct, booked, placed in a holding cell. It may have been over a month ago, maybe two, but Dani’s worked with falsely accused officers before, and most of them transfer after a couple of weeks. 

Bright doesn’t have that option. 

As though he hears her thinking, he turns his head in their direction, his smile falling — he still smiles with  _ Edrisa _ , who never lost faith in him like she did, never doubted him or accused him of being like his father. It may be why Dani hasn’t seen him in three weeks, since Ainsley was arraigned, and not much before. He may have forgiven her, but Dani hasn’t forgiven herself. 

“Detectives,” a uniform grabs her and JT’s attention. She hands them booties and Dani catches JT’s expression. 

“Don’t even say it,” Dani warns him. 

“You know it means it’s a messy one,” he replies, leaning against the banister to his right, balancing to cover one shoe. 

“Or that our feet are wet and we don’t want to contaminate the scene with whatever’s outside.” she snaps back with a smile. She’s finished covering her boots before he is and crosses the living room towards the vic. JT crosses behind her, the floor creaking under his heavier steps. 

“Dani, JT,” Gil says, turning as they approach. “Meet our vics. Harold and Saralynn Gilbert. Bodies discovered this morning by some kids exploring ‘abandoned places,’ which seems to be a hobby of some kind. Time of death, as well as Edrisa can narrow it down, sometime Saturday night.” 

The small ME looks up from where she’s crouched near a tall woman in casual dress, dyed red hair fanned out on the wood floor below her, open eyes forever vacantly staring off to her left, the kitchen. The lights are on in there, more techs finding space to work. The floor is  _ covered _ in tracks of blood. 

“Either late afternoon or evening,” she says plainly, no jokes. “Mr. Gilbert was killed in the kitchen before Mrs. Gilbert out here. One puncture wound to the liver.” 

“We  _ think _ ,” Bright speaks up, half turning from Edrisa, “there was a Roomba running all Sunday.” 

“A  _ Roomba _ ?” asks Dani, looking around at the warping wood floor and soiled rugs turning green from mildew. “How did a Roomba get in here?”

“We think the killer brought it with them,” Bright says. “It ran all through the first floor.”

“Until we stopped it,” Edrisa says to him with a grin. 

He turns back to her. “That’s one way to put it.” 

Gil rolls his eyes at them, trying to hide his amusement with irritation. Neither Bright nor Edrisa get discretion at crime scenes, and will often go off topic for extended periods of time if not supervised. Their conversations have helped solve a few cases, though, and Gil has allowed it — at times. It feels odd, though, being on the outside of the joke, Edrisa not looking to her and JT to explain, with child-like enthusiasm, exactly how the Roomba was stopped. 

“Murder weapon?” JT asks, classically untempered by the tension lent by Edrisa’s presence. His gloves snap as he puts them on and passes Gil, crouching down next to Bright near the vic. 

“Unrecovered,” Bright tells him. “The killer got in close — no defensive wounds, no signs of a struggle. She bled out quickly.” 

Dani rounds the vic, standing at the head across from Edrisa, finally looking down at the woman’s face. She’s older, in her 50’s, but youthful, with short, dyed red hair. It’s a shocking shade, like flames. It’s…out of place on Mrs Gilbert, but Dani just can’t figure out why. 

Maybe she just needs to see more of the house. 

Outside a clap of lightning cracks directly overhead making the house itself shake, knickknacks clattering as the curio cabinet in the corner of the dining room rattles. JT jumps, eyes closing for a moment, hands clasped together. Bright reacts for a moment, then places a hand, hesitatingly, on JT’s shoulder. He waits a beat, then removes it before anyone notices, like he can’t show he cares, or he’s not allowed to, even though he’s still part of the team. Dani does, and she catches his eye, thanking him. Bright gives her a tight smile and tilt of the head and it’s the most connected she’s felt in  _ weeks _ . 

“So,” she clears her throat, “17. I assume Mr. Gilbert is 16?”

“Yes, across the cheeks,” Edrisa tells her, “carved by what looks like a swivel-head x-acto knife. See how precise the edges are? If you were using a box cutter, you’d have to pick it up and start again.” She leans in close, gloved hand hovering inches from the 7 carved deep into the vic’s cheek, bloodied and raised, showing it was done before death. Bright leans to take a closer look where Edrisa’s pointing, catching up on a case they’ve been chasing for weeks. 

“That’s different,” observes JT. 

“Walk through any craft store and you’d find them,” she shrugs. “The blade is smaller but,” 

“Wait,” Dani stops her, “Bright, you said there were no signs of a struggle. How did the killer do this while she was alive?” 

“I think the tox screen may help with that one,” he answers. He’s standing next to Gil, brushing off his thighs. 

“You think they were unconscious when killed?” asks JT. The three men are standing on the edge of the dining room when another boom of thunder hits. A few uniforms near the entrance behind them jump, and through the open door, the rain outside is coming down in sheets. Lightning flashes behind them, streaks that crackle across the dark clouds in quick succession. 

“Possibly.” Bright steps into the living room, looking to and from the door as he imagines the confrontation, hands waving in the air as he tracks movement they can’t see. He shakes his head, frowning, and JT starts towards him, floorboards creaking as he does. 

“Lieutenant,” calls their duty sergeant from the hall. Megars, Dani thinks, newly promoted and excited to prove herself. “The kids’ parents are here.” 

Gil nods and starts for her, hand grabbing onto Bright’s arm as he passes. Dani turns her attention to the kitchen, her head turned in that direction when she hears the floor in the living room groan and creak, then the cracking that snaps through the house like lightning just struck it. 

But the damage of weeks of storms and partial flooding had been done and Dani’s whirling around just in time to see the floor disappear from under Gil and Bright, JT falling on the edge and catching himself with a hand. Dani’s sliding across the old wood, right hand outstretched, grabbing onto his before he can lose his grip. He grasps it, swinging up his other arm, and hangs, breathing heavy. 

She smiles down at him, tightening her grip. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Dani looks over the top of JT’s head to the basement below, where Gil and Bright disappeared. “Megars! Get your uni’s shining lights down there  _ now! _ ” 

A few approach the edge and snap on their flashlights, but the floor begins to give way under their feet, causing them to backtrack quickly to the hall and entranceway. They keep shining their lights, though, and Dani tries to see something, but she can’t. There’s just the sound of abandoned furniture falling to the basement, and then the crack of that floor failing. She’s sure she shouts but there aren’t any words as she realizes Gil -- who just came back to work two weeks ago -- and Bright just hit one floor, then another.  _ Two _ impacts. Too far down for them to see anything. 

“ _ Shit.”  _ She frowns, lips tightening, then refocuses on JT. “Let’s go,” she tells him, starting to pull him up. JT shakes his head and begins letting go of one of her wrists. 

“Give me your flashlight, Powell,” he asks, holding out his hand. 

She knows what he’s thinking. Their lights aren’t penetrating past the basement, and it’s opened up into a sub-basement cluttered with debris still raining down from above. It’ll take some time for them to get stronger lights down here, even longer for rescue personnel to find a way down into the deteriorating structure. There’s no way to know if cell signals will penetrate, and they need eyes down there. 

“We can find the stairs, get down into the basement,” she offers, desperate. 

“The light.” 

Sighing, she pulls her flashlight from her pocket and slaps it into his palm. “Be careful.” 

And lets go. 

—

Something heavy smacks him in the head, an unpleasant wakeup call that reverberates through his skull, adding to the pain already throbbing through his head. It beats so loudly, Gil can barely think, focusing on breathing to keep nausea at bay, willing the internal marching band to turn the volume down just a little bit. Debris continues to fall around him, a hazard he needs to find shelter from, his probable concussion is going to have to wait. 

A few pieces fall, then it falls silent. Taking the risk, Gil opens his eyes to an inky darkness only lit by shafts of light coming down in spotty streams from high above. The floor to the basement is broken and jagged like teeth, and he can’t see much past that. He squints, trying to see into the dilapidated house they were in — 

_ He wasn’t alone when he fell _ . 

“Bri-” Gil coughs, his mouth full of dust, dry, and heaves a deeper breath — “Bright!” The kid had been a few steps behind him when the floor gave way and they began to fall; he’d seen Bright next to him for a split second while they were in the air, expressive eyes wide with surprise. Gil coughs a few more times, trying to breathe deep, finding it difficult. He brings a hand up to his chest, rubbing at it until his hand stops at — 

Well, he lets out a few curses under his breath. The lack of lighting leaves much to be desired, so he explores the wood with his hand, the weight finally being felt as his head clears. It isn’t completely obstructing his ability to expand his lungs, just the bottom third, but the compression and decreased capacity will only make things worse. Gil tries to lift it, counting to three in his mind, and pushes up with both hands, but stops after half a second as pain blossoms in his right wrist, traveling up his arm, and he falls, defeated, to the wet concrete under him. 

He doesn’t realize he made a sound until he feels a hand land on his shoulder.

Gil jumps and shouts. Right up into the dirty, wet face of Malcolm Bright. 

Unlike himself, Bright’s mobile, scooting under a pair of criss crossed beams, hair obscuring half his face. But his eyes are focused when they meet Gil’s, the smile on his face real. 

“Gil — Thank God,” Bright breathes out, patting his shoulder a couple of times before sitting back on his heels, catching his breath. “Tell me what hurts.” 

“You first,” counters Gil, but there’s no heat behind the words. He can barely make out Bright’s outline now that he’s sat back, his face in deep contrast on the edge of the nearest bit of light able to reach them this far down. Everything is slick with rain water from weeks of storms and whatever’s been crashing in from the ocean beyond, the air hot and humid, heavy with the pungent smell of mildew. It’s musty and thick at the back of his throat. 

“I hate summer storms,” Bright mutters, seeming to come out of whatever trance he’d been caught in. His comment makes Gil think of the first time the kid experienced a good old New York brownout and had to deal with no air conditioning, the sub-level dissolving around the edges as he finds himself suddenly, inexplicably, exhausted. 

He’s pulled from the edge of a nap by Bright moving around the small space between the wall and the beam holding Gil down. Trying to track movement, even in the low light, is making his stomach flip flop, so he goes by the sounds of shoes scuffling on wet concrete and wood, hands sliding along the wood, how long they do before coming to a stop. 

The sigh at the end is defeated, as soft as Bright tries to make it. 

He knows Bright will try to do anything he can to get him free, and minimize whatever news he feels may upset Gil. He’s always done that, ever since he was a kid, hiding the worst of the bruises from when the bullies at school decided he was an easy target, rounding down the number of drinks his mother had on nights she went to bed early, leaving Bright to fend for himself at eleven years old. Ainsley was always in the care of her nanny, when Jessica wasn’t paying her attention, or Bright himself, who clung to his sister in those first few years. 

Bright shifts and Gil feels him sit facing him, leaning against whatever’s there. “Hey, Gil,” he says softly, “I’m turning on a light. I need to check your eyes.” 

“Sure.” He squeezes them shut, but even then, the light from Bright’s flashlight stabs into his head, sending static electricity across his brain, the throbbing growing back into the pounding he woke up with. Nausea rises in his stomach again, and this time, he can’t push it back down, gagging as his abdominal tense. He feels Bright help him twist to the side as best he can, morning coffee just as acidic when it comes up. The entire exercise leaves him breathless and dizzy when he settles back down, gulping down deep breaths as he tries to find order to his thoughts. 

A soft hiss hits his ears, though, as Bright settles back to where he was sitting before, the flashlight pointed away, giving just enough light that if Gil cracks open his eyes, he can just back out Bright’s profile —his mouth is in a tight line, his eyes pinched with pain.  _ Of course _ he didn’t go through two falls and escape unscathed. 

Gil just wishes he could trust himself to speak, but needs a moment. 

“I know that look,” Bright comments, leveling his gaze at him. He sighs and runs his hand through his wet hair, pushing his hair from his face. It’s pale, with a cut running down the left side, from his temple to the outside of his chin. Not too deep, but enough to bloody his neck. “Let’s focus on getting you out of here before that concussion gets worse. My phone broke in the fall,” he adds in frustration, and Gil knows the kid is thinking about Dani and JT, topside, and how they’re probably worried. 

Gil blinks, trying to clear his vision, unsatisfied, as usual, with one of Bright’s plans. 

—

One of the advantages of dropping with a flashlight in hand is JT has a better idea of where he’s landing. 

The downside is he only has one free hand to grab a ledge before falling two floors instead of one. 

Going down two floors would only leave him in the same condition as Gil and Bright, wherever they are. Part of him wants to hope they landed somewhere off to the side in the basement, but his years in the army taught him to anticipate the worst and be surprised by the best case scenario. 

He lands, absorbing the impact with his knees; they protest, reminding him he isn’t as young as he used to be, and is now wearing dress shoes, not combat boots. His left foot slips and he nearly falls back into the hole, but grabs onto a post and rights himself quickly. 

“Shit,” breathes JT, rubbing his forehead. 

The basement doesn’t reveal much. Whoever owned the place moved out when it was wrecked in the last big storm, leaving a few random boxes and older furniture they didn’t feel like keeping. The space is mostly open, pieces of the floor falling away as the house continues to fail. The main hole continues to grow, large pieces of the support structure crashing to the sub-basement below, vibrations spreading to the rest of the waterlogged wood. 

“Gil! Bright! You down here?” he calls out as he skirts the edges, figuring they’re more sound than walking the middle of the room. He kicks old knickknacks out of the way, making sure to be loud the entire time. “C’mon, guys.” 

There isn’t much across the hole from him, but he shines the light there anyway. There’s a ledge, nothing there. To the left are the stairs, the bottom three fallen away, along with the water heater and dryer that were next to them, the washer tilted halfway into the abyss. 

“If I have to lift a dryer off one of you, you’ll  _ never _ hear the end of it,” he grumbles. 

The sub-basement looks to have been a cellar of some kind from when the house was first constructed, but probably never used by the last residents. JT goes back through the basement, searching the walls for the entrance, hoping it isn’t outside and hating that New York has to be so old, the houses have all these secret undergrounds. It’s the same with the subway. He  _ hates _ having to chase or search for perps in the old subway tunnels. They’re  _ creepy _ . 

So is this place. Thunder still booms outside, though the worst is past. Rain still leaks down, the compromised house above allowing it to penetrate  _ everything _ . Waterlogged boxes sag into each other. Mildew grows on abandoned furniture. The smell is  _ overwhelming.  _

Finally, a door! JT reaches for the handle only to be slammed into from the side, shoved to the ground. He recovers quickly, kicking out, feels his foot connecting with the shin of his attacker. They let out a shout and go to the side, crashing into a stack of wet boxes. JT gets to his feet, going for the attacker, reaching for his gun — the attacker throws something heavy at JT, catching the edge of his arm. Items keep coming his way, forcing JT on the defensive. He protects his head with his arms, searching for cover as the attacker comes at him and gets a combination hit in JT’s torso. JT rounds with a right hook, then another. The man goes for JT’s knee, catches the outside of his right one, causing him to fall sidewise into one of the thick support pillars. JT takes the chance and dashes behind it, using the momentary cover to pull his gun from his holster. 

“Freeze! NYPD!” 

The warning is ignored. JT has the attacker in his sights. “I’m not warning you again!” 

It doesn’t stop the man. He comes right at JT, who lets off a shot. It catches the man in the shoulder, changing the momentum of his run. 

JT never noticed how close they’d gotten to the edge of the hole. When the shot catches the attacker in the shoulder, he tilts to the right, falling backwards. He loses his balance and, while JT watches, falls down to the sub-basement as the detective realizes that was probably their killer. 

— 

“Powell, I get it, we  _ all _ get it, but I’m not risking any more people because we’re not taking the time to be safe.” 

She knows Chief Hoffstedler is right, and trusts his instincts — there’s a reason he’s been sent outside his district to assist with the search and rescue operation, and that’s because his team has the most experience with unstable structures. But her stomach’s been in her throat ever since Gil and Bright disappeared down into the inky blackness that now occupies the center of their crime scene. Dani can’t even remember if they made a sound or if they were too surprised by the sudden loss of floor to even shout. 

And JT, making the choice to go down there and search for them.

Dani sighs. “I should be down there, looking for them.” 

“C’mon. I know it’s your team, your LT,” he says, her comment apparently not as soft as she’d intended, “but we’re doing everything we can. Whatever caused the collapse didn’t just damage the first floor, but the basement, too. We’re looking into gaining access through some disused subway utility tunnels — “

“Wait, the storms caused it,” Dani interrupts with a hand on his arm. 

“No, this wasn’t an accident, Powell.” Someone calls for the Chief and he turns, listening, before patting her arm. “I’ll keep you updated.” 

Dani takes shelter in her car, still parked close to the crime scene, but moved a bit further to make room for the fire department’s command tent. It’s only been thirty minutes, but as soon as the shock wore off, she’d been on the phone with Captain Horne, explaining what happened and demanding the best search and rescue they had. She may have skirted the line of insubordination, but Horne worked his way up from beat cop and didn’t care much for politics, which was a big part of how Bright continued to work with Major Crimes. 

Thankfully, the response was quick, and the unis switched from securing a crime scene to assisting fire. 

Edrisa, once she got over the initial shock and calmed down from an anxiety attack, performed beautifully, securing the bodies and any evidence that hadn’t been contaminated or ruined in the collapse. Parts of the walls had gone at the same time, drenching them and most of the first floor in rainwater. They left after Dani convinced Edrisa there wasn’t much more she could do there except get in the way. It’d been hard, and Dani reminded the ME that despite their differences, especially their  _ disagreement _ over Bright’s innocence during the investigation into Eve’s killer’s death, they were on the same team, and Dani is going to do  _ everything _ she can to get the others back. 

Huffing out a breath, Dani slides down in the driver’s seat, hands falling in her lap. Useless hands. Her team’s somewhere under a house condemned after the last big storm that came through, the fifth and sixth bodies discovered with numbers carved in their cheeks, numbers that has them believing the city’s missed a large number of earlier victims. They’d been communicating with other precincts across the city, searching cold cases to find the first victims, but had only found numbers 4, 7, and 11 so far. 

This was a case for Bright’s expertise. 

But more than that, she  _ missed _ him. Investigating just wasn’t the same without him, even the day to day  _ paperwork _ wasn’t the same. When he’d just started consulting with them, Gill would call him in 3, maybe 4 times a month. By the time everything happened with Endicott, Bright’s presence was a constant around the precinct; when he wasn’t working an active case with them, he was consulting with other detectives, combing cold cases, or working his own research in a comfortable space. 

Gil had been back for  _ two weeks _ . Bright’s been back for half a day, if that, having come in the night before to speak with Gil and Horne about his return as a consultant after being arrested for murder and slipping house arrest. Ainsley’s case is still pending as they figure out what, exactly, happened, Bright himself tight-lipped and his sister’s memory of the event blank. Dani  _ knew _ it had to be eating away at him, but their trust is still being rebuilt one shared tea at a time. They were both busy, and without a shared work day, they’d been few and far between. 

And now, she  _ knew _ they were hurt. Two stories, there’s no way they  _ weren’t _ . Her mind begins to picture all the deaths she’s seen by blunt force trauma, possible injuries they could have sustained, all while knowing this isn’t getting her anywhere. Dani breathes through the anxiety, grasping her hands tightly together. 

She’s pulled from her musings by her phone ringing, the sound filling the entire car. Dani scoots up and pulls it from her jacket pocket, answering it breathlessly. “JT! JT are you ok?” 

“Yeah. Powell. Listen, I think the killer is still here,” he says quickly. 

“What?” 

“I made it to the basement and was attacked while searching.” 

She smiles. “Still can’t clear a floor on your own?” 

“I guess not. It’s wet and smelly down here, Powell. I’m not wearing the right shoes.” He huffs, buying time. “I managed to hit him, but he, he fell. Fell down to the next floor.”

“JT, it’s not your fault,” she tells him sternly before he can think it, “don’t even go there. We’re working out here to get down to you guys. Hoffstedler said this wasn’t an accident.” 

“Elaborate escape plan?” 

“We got close,” she agrees, “and he wanted to take out cops.” 

“No, he waited until Gil stepped into the room. Bright and I were already in there,” answers JT. She hears some rustling on the other side, then a grunt as something slides, reluctantly, against wood. “I think I found a staircase to the next level; I’m heading down now. I don’t know if I’ll have cell signal, but if I do, I’ll call when I’ve found them.” 

There’s not much she can offer, and again wishes she were there, feeling empty being cut off from her partner. “Be careful.”

“You know it.” 

JT hangs up and she drops her phone into the empty passenger seat before slamming her palms into the steering wheel with a choked sob. 

—

Gunshots pop above their heads, jolting Malcolm awake where he’d slid down the side of the support beam, head tilting dangerously close to landing on Gil’s torso. The exhaustion crept up on him after he’d tried to move the beam himself, first by trying to shift it from the lower torso to the legs, knowing the damage would be lessened, not avoided by such a move. At these times, the medical knowledge his father gifted him during late night cocoa and weekend games comes, however much he  _ despises  _ it, in handy. 

That move, however, did nothing but cause Gil distress, something Malcolm disliked causing. He seemed to do it all the time, even when he was trying not to. 

There were a few attempts with trying for leverage, shoving other pieces under it, a metal bar he found nearby. Each attempt sucked energy from him, and it was Gil who finally begged him to stop, noticing how much his hands were shaking by the end. Malcolm would have gladly kept going if it meant  _ one _ of his ideas freed his mentor, but said mentor held him in the same esteem, to Malcolm’s eternal frustration, and he’s never been able to deny Gil anything. 

Within reason. 

They’d tried to talk, but Gil’s words began to slur together, causing Malcolm’s anxiety to spike, and the two eventually settled into Malcolm sharing stories from growing up and Gil staying just awake enough to hear them. 

Malcolm puts a hand down on the wet ground to push himself up and yelps when pain shoots up his left arm, causing his teeth to click together with an audible clack. He’d forgotten about his shoulder and corresponding useless arm, another negative in the Get Gil Free plan he’s been revising with every failed try. 

“That was JT,” rasps Gil. Malcolm turns to him so fast his world tilts and he almost face plants into Gil’s chest. “Whoah, kid?” 

“Dizzy,” he mumbles, and just gives in, tired and cold and mostly wet, resting his forehead against Gil. “What about JT?” 

“I heard him, warning a perp.” 

Malcolm opens his mouth to ask about what perp, and where JT is, and why they haven’t seen him yet, but then there’s a loud crash off to the left and a few more objects from above fall along with whatever just came down, shifting everything around them. He launches forward with strength he didn’t know he had and covers Gil, hugging him close, hissing as he holds in a grunt as something hits his leg. But then something hits a particularly sensitive spot on his lower back and he lets out a howl, he thinks, but his vision whites out for a second and ever nerve lights on fire as the pain overwhelms him for a second. 

“ — right, Bright! C’mon, you there?” Gil’s voice is a whisper, right in his ear, bringing him back. The pain in his back is gone, just a coolness, but his whole back is cold and wet. He’s more concerned with the stinging in his leg and the way he’s put weight on his left arm. “Kid, I know you’re hurt.” 

“I just, just give me a second,” he says slowly. Breathe. Gather your thoughts. If Gil heard JT warning a perp, and then there was a gunshot and a fall — “Gil, Gil I think the perp fell down here.” 

“No. Bright.  _ Malcolm _ ,” — Gil grabs his arm in a tight hold and turns his face so their noses almost touch — “you’re injured — “

“So is he!” 

“More than he is,” Gil levels. 

“He doesn’t know that.” 

“Please,” Gil pleads. He holds Malcom’s gaze, his grip strong and steady where he holds onto him. “Just this once, listen to me.” 

Malcolm uses his right arm to push up, his adrenaline giving him the energy he’d been lacking. The dizziness is still there, but he’s a chronic insomniac who doesn’t eat much on a normal day — it’s something he’s used to navigating the world through,  _ hiding _ while he goes about his day. His temporary reprieve was nice, but now he needs to protect Gil  _ and _ make sure their killer doesn’t get away.

He strips off his suit jacket and then dress shirt, the latter soaked with sweat and a bit of blood. If he’s going to be moving around, he’ll need to mobilize his left arm — he’s probably already damaged it enough it’ll need surgery, but there’s no need to  _ keep _ doing that. His flashlight still sits at the edge of their little pocket in the rubble, and he pauses before pocketing it, holds it out to Gil. 

“How the hell are you going to find him in the dark?” Gil bites out. His face is flushed, eyes pinched together. He isn’t in pain, he’s  _ angry _ . Malcolm sighs and pockets it, plunging them once more into nothing more than vague shadows. “I wish you’d just — “

“I’m just doing some recon,” Malcolm cuts him off, bitter. “I’m not going to leave you defenseless with a moderate concussion, Gil.” 

He scoots towards the small gap that serves as a way into the small space against one of the back walls before Gil can say anything else, too hurt he thought Malcolm was really going to leave him alone when there was nothing he could do to defend himself if the killer found him before Malcolm did. He’s had law enforcement training just like the rest of them, and this isn’t even the first disaster-like situation he’s found himself in. 

Malcolm puts himself in harm’s way to protect those who  _ need protecting.  _ And right now, that includes Gil. 

Shaking his head as if that could clear the mental fog slowly descending over his thoughts and coordination, he turns around the end of the post he currently hates for its position over his long-time friend and peeks up at the hole in the ceiling to the basement, squinting to see if he could see up into the dining room. It’s all blurry; he lost a contact somewhere, probably from trying to get all the dust out of his eyes. 

There’s a little more light out here, and rain is falling from high above, creating an eerie yet soft soundtrack of droplets hitting the ground in near silence. 

The idea of recon is a laughable one. If their killer is unconscious out there, Malcolm won’t be able to see him. Hell, the guy could be walking at him right now and Malcolm wouldn’t see him until too late. Using the flashlight would only attract attention. 

But more than that, why was the killer still in the house in the first place? The bodies had been there since Saturday, two days ago. There’s no sense in committing the crime and then hanging around for two extra days, unless he was hoping to get more insight into what the police knew. Except they’d search the house as part of their normal procedure and then he’d be stuck. 

Unless there’s another way out. Not up through the house, but from the sub-basement. 

One that emergency services had to have found by now, and would either be exploring or approaching through. Their killer is effectively trapped. 

And trapped people are  _ desperate _ . 

Malcolm realizes what they’re dealing with and turns to go back to Gil when a foot slams into the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the ground in an uncoordinated heap of limbs. He loses track of time for a moment, the semi-darkness going black, and comes to with the killer’s hand fisted in his hair, holding his head up off the ground. 

“So you did survive it,” he remarks, somewhat surprised. From this close, Malcolm can make out a sharp, pointed nose, thin lips, a few day’s growth on his face.  _ He waited here since Saturday _ . “I was hoping you wouldn’t.” 

The killer drops his head and steps back, holding his right shoulder near where it meets his neck with his left gloved hand, face open, waiting on Malcolm. 

Who needs a moment. His head spins, body suddenly breaking out in a cold sweat, hands clammy. When he blinks, the killer splits into two before resolving into a single image. Malcolm pushes himself up onto his right elbow and says, “You planned this.” 

The killer claps. “You really think  _ lightning _ could take out a whole floor? You’re dumber than I thought.” 

“Concussed,” responds Malcolm quickly. 

The killer scoffs. “That kick was a love tap, at best.” 

The cool cement under him is welcoming, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to it. “That remains a matter of opinion,” he mutters to the floor. From the corner of his eye, he catches the booted feet of the killer move, but not towards him. They head off in the direction he came from, towards where  _ Gil is _ . 

“Now, where are the others, that’s what I’m wondering,” the killer remarks as he walks further away. Malcolm feels helpless, thoughts jumbled as he watches their killer, a man the team’s been after for  _ weeks _ , someone who’s eluded them to the point Gil came to his loft and told him this is the case that is going to bring him back into the fold, head towards his mentor when Malcolm can only focus on breathing. He’d jumped at the opportunity, momentarily angry at the fact it took five other victims before the brass decided they needed Malcolm Bright back consulting for them. 

He’d wanted back right away. The commissioner felt employing someone who’d been arrested for first degree murder and then wouldn’t reveal the identity of the real killer wouldn’t be  _ good PR _ , let alone allowing that someone to be a trustworthy member of their civilian support staff. Edrisa’d been the key to his exoneration, collecting clean samples and sending them to two other labs out of state, who cooperated, independently, that not only were the trace elements left on the body of Eddie not those of Malcolm Bright, but they were  _ female _ . 

Gil had some idea, of course, of who that could be, but never asked Malcolm to confirm it. Just sat and had a drink with him, asked if he still dreamed of the girl in the box, and smiled when Malcolm confirmed she had, finally, left. 

“Why are you here?” Malcolm asks, genuinely curious. “Why, why all this?” 

The killer stops and comes back towards him, where Malcolm’s managed to get his knees under him, unsteady as a tripod, left arm useless in its sling. He turns his head up to his advisory, who smiles, then kicks out and hits Malcolm in the stomach. He goes down and coughs, vomiting stomach acid and coffee, bolts of pain running up and down his spine as he does. 

“Because I have an opportunity and I’m going to take it,” he growls in Malcolm’s ear. “Now where are the others so I don’t have to waste my time searching.” 

“That’s not going to happen,” Malcolm grits out. The killer grabs the back of his shirt and pulls on the sling, causing his dislocated shoulder to shift and move and Malcolm lets out a shout, panting as the pain builds. At this point, all his weight is being held by their killer, and his right hand is free. There’s a knife on the killer’s belt, and if he can keep the man distracted for just another second, he might be able to release the velcro and get it out. “I’m not going to give up my team,” he adds, voice stronger with renewed resolve. The velcro releases softly and Malcolm momentarily thanks whoever’s looking out up there the stuff is wet so it doesn’t make a sound. 

Malcolm extracts the knife, flips it open, and stabs up into the killer’s thigh, all the way to the hilt. 

—

Half the stairs are rotted out, and JT almost loses a  _ shoe _ at one point, swearing that if he does, Bright’s paying for a new pair, and they’re going somewhere  _ fancy _ so Tally can play pretend for a day and sip champagne. It slows his progress and he has to stop checking his watch to see how much time has passed since he let their prime suspect fall down into an unknown area with half his team probably injured and unable to defend themselves. Gil has his sidearm and is a pretty good fighter on his own, and Bright’s gotta be able to fight, though JT hopes he gets there in time to see it, but if they’re hurt, that limits whatever abilities they have. 

Which is why he’s down here in the first place. 

Once he gets halfway, though, the stairs go from those maintained by the homeowner to the cement ones built a century ago by the city, and he runs down those as fast as he can without making too much noise. At the bottom there’s another door, and JT clicks off his flashlight but still holds it above his firearm, pushing the door open a crack with his right shoulder. 

The sub-basement is much larger than the floor above, extending out in either direction. The ground is littered with debris from above, large support beams cluttered like fallen Jenga pieces. He listens, hearing the rain as it falls from above, as he tries to make out any moving shapes in the general vicinity before pushing the door open a little more. It scrapes against the cement and he winces, pushing slowly to keep it as quiet as possible. He manages to get it open enough to get through and slides through. 

JT’s heading in the direction of the gaping hole in the ceiling when he hears Bright shout out in pain. 

—

As soon as Bright disappears around the corner, Gil’s heart rate ratchets up to eleven. 

Watching the kid go off into danger has  _ never _ been easy, and that includes going to visit his father, going off to Quantico — any unknown has worried him, the kid’s fragile psyche and good heart protected by him, and later Jackie, for so long, it comes as second nature. 

But he’d seen how bad Bright looked. How pale. There was more wrong than he’d revealed, which isn’t that much of a deviation from the norm, but he thought the kid had at least learned to trust the process and be honest with Gil. He certainly wasn’t in any position to  _ stop him _ . 

It’s gotten harder to breathe. He can take small breaths, his chest a mass of deep, blunt throbbing that’s wrapped around his back to make his ribs ache. Each breath burns and his chest is heavy with little pinpricks crackling inside. Gil’s been on the force long enough to have seen all sorts of injuries, and knows this isn’t good. 

If only the throbbing in his chest would synchronize with the storm raging in his head. The water’s been slowly rising as he’s laid there, now tickling the shell of his ears. 

There’s a loud  _ thwack  _ and grunt and Gil’s halfway to calling out before he stops himself. Listens for what comes next, a context clue to calm the terror he feels, trapped, while booted footsteps walk and then drag a body across the floor. 

From this far, Gil can’t make out the words, but he does hear the tones of Bright’s voice, lets out a sigh of relief, realizes he’d been holding what little breath he can manage. The perp says something back in a tone Gil  _ also _ recognizes as one used by those annoyed with Malcolm Bright, and he allows himself a small smile. He admires the kid’s spirit, that’s for sure. 

But there’s panic under the surface, and it rises as the water starts to collect in his ears, making it hard for him to hear what’s going on. It distorts the sounds until he can’t tell who is who, if Bright is still talking or the perp’s giving ultimatums. They distract him from thoughts of rising water and how little movement he’s capable of. Maybe Bright’s gotten the upper hand and is on his way back to help Gil out. Or maybe the perp, less injured and stocked with a weapon of some kind, took control and Gil isn’t going to get rescued. 

He can’t hear anything at this point. Time’s slippery, has been for awhile, a minute passing within an hour. Gil does know his team will get him out. They’ve never let him down before, never let  _ one another _ down, and this knowledge keeps him calm as controls his breathing.

—

“Damnit,” JT growls under his breath, picking up the pace. It’s hard to find a clear path, and he has to climb over debris, some of the old furniture from upstairs, around other blocks that have fallen. It takes him entirely too long, and he hears another scream of pain, but from a voice he doesn’t recognize. He smiles, figuring that has to be their perp. 

By the time he reaches them, their perp is standing over Bright with a bloody knife in his left hand, swinging it down at the kid. JT groans and clicks on his light, but the perp’s already in motion when JT shouts at him to drop the weapon — below, Bright rolls over out of the way and the knife hits the concrete, tip breaking off. The perp drops it and Bright scrambles, grabbing it — 

“Hey!” shouts JT, swinging the light around, “remember me, asshole? Why don’t you back away from my bro there and put your hands up.” 

Both the perp and Bright are frozen on the ground, the latter looking like  _ shit _ . His face is half bloodied and he’s so pale, he’s a ghost. Translucent, and in a sickly way. His dress shirt’s making a piss-poor sling for a badly dislocated shoulder, and from JT’s vantage point, sporting some spectacular bruising on his lower back. 

But he’s got the knife in his hand and steel in his eyes. 

—

Inez and Lochley pull on crowbars at the same time, forcing the rusty door open with an explosive creak of unused hinges and sealed steel. Dani’s glad she stood back as rust floats into the air around them, coating the two fire personnel in the fine powder. 

They’re a quarter of a mile away in the service area of the nearest subway, all trains this direction diverted to give them unfettered access. Hoffstedler stands off to the side, supervising, hands on his hips. Dani narrows her eyes, not liking something in the rigidness of his posture, and crosses to him as the rest of his people work on getting the door open enough to fit through not only people, but their equipment. 

“Thank you again for everything,” she says by way of greeting. 

He waves her off with a hand, “No need. We’re all family, and if what you say is right, and there’s a suspected serial killer in there, then we need to get them back up sooner than later.” 

“Myself and five other officers will be leading — “

“I understand you want to protect us, Detective Powell, and I will admit I’m a bit,” he pauses, searching for the right word “ _ uneasy _ about my people going into a situation that poses both a physical threat from a search and rescue standpoint  _ and _ unknown perpetrator inside. But we’ve faced much tougher shit than this.” He gives her a smile and lightly grasps her upper arm. “We’ll be fine. Don’t mistake that for me not wanting to be here.” 

She nods, tears welling up in her eyes as her emotions come close to the surface. “Thanks, thanks,” she replies quickly before turning around and gaining some distance before wiping her eyes on the felt lining of her windbreaker. She doesn’t have time right now to lose control of her emotions — she needs to be clear-minded and focused if she’s going to get the rest of her team out of there. For some reason, she’s here, on the surface — under it — and Dani is taking her role seriously. 

The idea of Gil, the man who saw value in her after her recovery, of Bright, who’s wormed his way into her life and has actually gotten her to trust him — Dani closes her eyes and takes a few of those deep yoga breaths Bright taught her to help calm anxiety one day when she watched him climb down from a panic attack. 

“We’re in!” Inez shouts. 

Dani jogs back to the scene and gathers her unis, all familiar and assigned to Major Crimes. They’re just as worried as she is, if the way Collins is pacing is any indication. 

“Fire’s leading and we’re coming up behind them. Once they clear an area as safe, we go in, weapons drawn,” instructs Dani. And here comes the hard part. “We need to leave rescue to do their jobs and find our people. Our job is to find the perp and secure him.” 

Merced frowns. “We should be the ones looking for them.”

“And what if they’re injured, or buried under some rubble?” she shoots back, worry and terror at losing two of the most important people in her life coming out as anger. “Do you have the necessary training?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

She sighs, “I know, I want to rush in and search for them, too. But Tarmel confirmed the perp’s in there  _ with them _ .” 

A finger taps her shoulder. “It’s time to go,” Hoffstedler tells her. 

Dani nods and turns back to her team. Partial team. “Lights on, wait for the all clear call.”

—

The moment’s broken when the perp uses the arm neither of them assumed he’d use to slam a fist down on the hand holding the knife, once, twice, until Bright has to release it with a gasp. The perp’s on him in a second, grabbing him and pulling so they’re sitting, Bright’s back to the perp’s chest, knife held at Bright’s throat. 

“I’ll kill him, detective,” the perp tells him, looking over his shoulder at JT. “So why don’t you put down  _ your _ weapon.” Bright’s face is pinched. JT doesn’t have many options, and without backup — now would be a great time for the search and rescue guys to find that access tunnel Dani had been talking about — he can’t do much but put his gun on the ground. “Kick it away,” the perp says, and JT complies. It skitters off to the right somewhere, under a support beam. 

“He’s here for Gil,” Bright says suddenly, his voice rough and thin. He’s fading fast, trying hard to keep awake as he’s held tightly against their perp. JT glances down at the perp’s leg and the blood pooling under him as they sit, and thinks if they keep him where he is, blood loss might work in their favor. 

“I know,” JT responds, “Fire Chief already figured out this wasn’t an accident.” 

That causes the perp to tighten his hold, the knife digging in a little more. Bright blinks slowly, his head lolling back and to the side, leaning on the perp’s shoulder, eyes struggling to stay open. He’s hurt more than JT can see and it’s worrying him, more than the man with the knife who is now frustratedly trying to readjust. 

“Sit up!” the perp yells, jostling Bright’s body with his shoulder. “Sit up, you’re — you’re,” with a final shove, he pushes Bright forward. JT expects the kid to catch himself and make some witty remark about how he did it on purpose to get out of his clutches, explain to the man his entire psychology, wrap up the case. 

Instead, he simply falls on his left side, limp. 

—

They make good time for the first few minutes, the tunnel wide and mostly clear of debris, the only sound their syncopated footfalls bouncing off the walls. It’s an army marching toward their enemy, a shadow making them appear larger than they are. They eventually come to a fork, a blueprint consulted on a tough book to find out which direction to go, which is left. 

At the end is another door, this one harder to open than the last. Dani hangs back, pacing in the hall, nervous energy swirling under her skin. It helps a little, kinetic energy releasing as her mind goes over how much time has passed since JT called. It’s been twenty minutes. She chews on her thumbnail, glancing over at the door and their progress. 

A torch is throwing sparks as they start cutting through the metal. 

—

JT’s eyes are on Bright, frantic, trying to catch the rise and fall of his chest. His hand pats his pocket where his cell phone is but he lost signal on the staircase, his connection to any help lost. It’s him against this killer that’s just tossed his partner — his  _ friend _ — like he’s  _ nothing _ to the ground, a means to an end JT isn’t going to let him accomplish. He’s seen Bright hurt before, he saw him after John Watkins got his hands on him, but now, hell. 

“You are  _ so _ under arrest, man,” he tells the perp, stalking up to him. JT runs as the perp scoots back until he hits a beam, eyes wide as he realizes he has nowhere else to go. He frantically reaches for his boot but JT is there first, kicking at the hand — ignores the howl the perp lets out — then roughly grabbing his injured side, throwing him on his stomach to the ground. He snaps the cuffs on easily and reads through the Miranda Rights before throwing him back against the pillar. 

“Don’t move.” The perp growls, but the amount of blood on the ground means the leg isn’t going to hold weight, and with his hands cuffed behind him, the guy isn’t going anywhere for awhile.

Satisfied, JT rushes over to Bright, his knees smashing into the concrete with an audible crack as he places a hand on the kid’s shoulder and gently rolls him forward, wanting to check out the bruising he saw earlier. It’s deep purple and near his kidney, another forming almost on top of it, nearer his spine, with a — a puncture mark stabbing inward, probably caused by some falling debris, the opening small enough the t-shirt didn’t show much blood. He rolls Bright onto his back, knowing it can’t be comfortable and shakes him, then decides tapping his face may be less painful, if possible. 

“Bright, Bright, c’mon, bro, wake up,” he says, hitting Bright’s cheek. It takes a few tries before he starts to blink his eyes open. They’re glassy and unfocused, roaming the room before settling on JT’s face. “Hey there. It’s your knight in shining armor here to save your ass.” 

That earns him a small smile. “What,” — Bright clears his throat — “what took you so long?” 

“You just had to pick this wonderful place, huh?” 

“Best first day back ever,” comes the soft reply. He’s already fading, eyes closing. 

JT taps his cheek again, “You gotta stay awake, Bright. I need you to focus, okay?” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for those eyes to meet his again. “Bright, where’s Gil?” 

At the mention of his mentor, Bright lifts his right arm from the ground and points behind him, towards a pile of pillars that must have held most of the house’s first floor up. JT sighs, and shakes his head as Bright lets his arm flop down on his side. 

“Just had to be under a pile of stuff, huh,” he remarks. JT glances over his shoulder where their perp’s still sitting where JT left him, a little worse for wear, but within view. If he goes around the pillars to find Gil, that’ll leave the man unsupervised except for Bright, who isn’t really in the right condition to guard a prisoner. 

But this is  _ Gil _ they’re talking about. 

“Okay,” he says to Bright. “Think you can sit up?” 

—

Gil gasps in surprise and almost gets a mouthful of water in return. 

His eyes land on JT leaning over him. Gil feels the muscles in his body relax as JT’s hand slides around to the back of his head and gently lifts his head out of the water, sound returning with a snap. “You do  _ not _ want to get a mouthful of that water, boss,” remarks JT. 

“I was trying not to,” Gil manages. “Where’s Bright?” 

“He’s fine.” JT keeps his hand under Gil’s head and starts taking off his windbreaker one arm at a time, then balls it up to make some kind of pillow. It works enough JT can remove his hand and grab Bright’s discarded suit jacket and add it, clearing Gil’s head from the water slowly flooding the sub-basement. 

Gil grabs JT’s wrist as he pulls away. “I appreciate it, but tell me — “

“He’s keeping an eye on our perp,” interrupts JT. “He was pretty badass, you know, should be proud of him.” He takes in the space Gil’s found himself in, the pillar he’s under, the other debris. “Powell says they’ve found a connection from some subway maintenance tunnels. No ETA since there’s no signal down here.” 

“Just have to wait,” breathes Gil. It seems to be all he can do. Did Jackie ever feel this out of breath when she was in that hospital bed, hooked up to those machines? Right before they put her on the ventilator, when she was gasping for air, her lips tinged, nails looking like she’d painted them the lightest shade of blue, did she feel like this? As he reaches out to grab JT’s hand, he can be comforted by the knowledge him sitting at her side holding her hand wasn’t a useless gesture. It brings a degree of comfort. 

“Hey, hey, man, you’ve gotta calm down,” JT says, shifting so he’s kneeling over Gil. “What’s wrong?” 

Gil tries, he really does, but just can’t make it out. He’s too exhausted.

—

“How much further?” 

Dani has to jog to catch up to Inez and ignores the dirty looks she gets from the others on the rescue team. They can give her shit for breaking formation later. The woman in question glances over her shoulder and gives a dramatic sigh. Dani rolls her eyes in return. Both women laugh, and Dani slows to a brisk walk, matching the forewoman’s pace. 

“Not much. There should be a slight curve ahead and then we’re down into a brick connection for about 500 feet before it breaks off into the original basements.” 

Dani raises an eyebrow. “I thought these were all old tunnels from the subway?” 

“Most are,” Inez explains, “but this part of the city’s been built up for centuries. The original basements became sub-basements as street level rose.” 

“So it’s under sea level?” 

Inez seems to catch on, “And it’s been raining.” She turns to the team, “We gotta hurry this up, boys! We’re under sea level and it’s been raining steadily!”

That’s all Dani needs. A slight curve and then 500 feet. She’s glad she did some track and field in high school, because she knows how long, approximately, it will take for her to cover that kind of distance. Guided by a borrowed flashlight and followed by an assorted team, she runs. 

—

“What was it about this one,” Malcolm pants, seated against a molded loveseat between the killer and Gil, “that you had to hide?” 

Most of his body’s gone numb at this point, and while his limbs feel heavy and his head weighs roughly twenty-two pounds, he isn’t in a tremendous amount of pain. Just tired, like usual, his thoughts coming slower than usual, words floating around in his head that turn to dust the moment he latches onto them. 

The killer looks up at him and shakes his head. “What is  _ with you? _ ” 

Malcolm shrugs his good shoulder. “I’m curious. You’ve killed how many now, seventeen?” He pauses, catching his breath. “And yet this one, you stayed at the crime scene and waited for the police to show up. Most killers would try to get involved by being in the crowd observing the scene, or approaching the investigating officers,” — he pauses again, head spinning a bit — “but you waited to ‘take out’ the lead investigators.” 

“So?” 

“So what was it about this scene, about these victims,” Malcolm asks, frustrated he has to repeat himself when air is a precious commodity, “that you had to do that?” 

“Isn’t your job figuring that out?” 

Malcolm huffs out a laugh and shifts to sit up straighter. “What do you think I’m doing?” 

“I think you’re asking questions thinking I’m going to answer them,” the killer responds with a smile, “when I’m just waiting for the right moment to follow your friend.” 

Malcolm frowns at the comment, remembering where he stabbed the other man in the thigh. The muscle was nearly severed and blood loss must be catching up to him now. There’s something raising an alarm in the back of his head, a blind spot he hasn’t been paying attention to because of his split focus. He pushes up to sit on the loveseat for a better vantage point just to catch the killer finish tightening a tourniquet on his leg.

_ Trapped people are desperate _ . 

He’s  _ supposed _ to call out for JT so he can secure the prisoner. He turns his head — JT is over with Gil, who’s been alone for too long already — then looks back at the prisoner. The man is trying to get up but keeps falling back down with frustrated grunts and swears. Malcolm looks around for something he can use as a weapon, preferably from a distance since he’s not entirely sure he’d be able to stand and  _ fight _ . There are a few good sized pipes nearby, a couple of chunks of wood. 

Grinning, he grabs a few around the size of an ax handle and closes one eye to try and resolve his target into one concise image. 

—

The jackets are keeping Gil’s head above water for now, but JT doesn’t think there’s going to be enough time for that to become a problem. The LT’s breaths have gotten shallower since JT first approached him, head halfway underwater.

“Anytime now, Powell,” he growls under his breath. On the other side of the pillars, he can hear snippets of Bright and the perp talking, wondering why he even believed Bright would listen when JT told him to call out at the first sign of life from the guy.

He can’t help but roll his eyes when he hears the  _ bonk _ of wood hit the — “Did you, did he just throw something at the serial killer?” 

Gil huffs what sounds like a laugh. “He’s resource — resourceful.” 

Another  _ bonk _ . 

“Tarmel?” comes Powell’s voice, and damn if it isn’t a sound for his sore ears. “Tarmel!” 

JT pats Gil’s hand and gives it an extra squeeze. “You gonna be okay for a sec?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s climbing out and trying to find the direction Powell’s approaching from. 

“JT, answer me!” 

“I’m here” he shouts. “I need rescue over here! We have a person trapped under some heavy debris that needs out  _ now _ .” 

Dani runs up to him and throws her arms around his shoulders as the rest of the personnel fans out around them, JT bringing his arms up to return the hug, letting himself relax into her embrace for a beat, the stress of the morning melting away. He’s made so many mistakes, the biggest being letting the perp get his hands on Bright, and once Gil hears about it, he expects he’ll have a bit more of that home time Tally’s been begging for. 

“Who’s under there?” she asks, hands tight on his shoulders. 

“Gil.” He points with his head in the direction of their uniformed officers, who’ve swarmed around their perp — thank  _ God _ that asshole is no longer his concern. “Bright’s over there somewhere.” 

“How are they?” Dani starts in that direction, JT falling in step beside her. 

“The office is gonna be quiet for awhile.” 

She takes that in stride, giving a tight nod. JT pats her shoulder and heads back to where Gil is, standing where he can to stay out of the way as a couple of the paramedics begin taking his vitals, an oxygen mask over his face. Gil is much more with it, now, his eyes open wide and taking in the activity around him. One starts splinting his right arm JT never even noticed was broken, by the look of the dark, splotchy bruising. 

“We’ve got a problem,” one says to the other, looking at the portable monitor. 

“Compression syndrome?” 

“Yeah.” 

From behind them, JT swears. Both look up at him and he waves them off, “Sorry.” 

“Whatever we’re going to do, it has to be soon,” the first says, slightly turned in his direction. JT appreciates the gesture and nods in agreement. “His oxygen stats aren’t good to start with and they’re going down.” 

The first paramedic sighs and grabs their radio, instructing, “Get Wilkes and the damn chainsaw down here; we’re going to have to cut this thing in pieces and get our patient to the surface stat.” 

—

“Did you throw pieces of wood as a weapon?” Dani crosses her arms and turns to Bright, now reclining on the smelliest piece of furniture she’s ever had the misfortune of being near. The first few EMTs have been focused on freeing Gil, so she took on Bright Duty, just until they can get the gurneys down here. The path’s clear and portable lights have been set up along the way. 

Bright, for his part, is trying to stay awake, his pale face splitting into a goofy grin. “I needed something and what are those but axes without the axe part?” 

Dani frowns, uncrossing her arms to crouch in front of him. Had she not been witness to him high on cocaine, among other things, she may not know, for instance, that the way he’s talking and the open expressions on his face are an indication he’s lost control. Those carefully constructed barriers and tamed personality, both designed to make him stand out less and be accepted, no longer keeping emotions in check. 

“Bright, are you bleeding anywhere?” she asks. Blood loss could make him loopy. Or a concussion. She stands and takes his head in her hands, checking it for any recent wounds. A glance at the entrance shows the rest of the crew isn’t here yet. Bright’s hand grips one of hers, pushing it away, bringing her attention back to her hands, still buried in his drying, stringy locks. 

“Stop it,” he huffs. Takes a couple breaths. “I can wait for the paramedics. Gil is the one who needs the help.” 

“You’d say that if you were bleed from a head wound,” replies Dani, rolling her eyes. She runs her hands through his hair, trying to straighten it out a bit, pushing it back from his face. “I was so worried about you two.” 

The smile he gives is soft, small. “Thanks,” he says thickly. “I don’t think I worried,” — his breath hitches and he shifts, wincing — "worried you would find us.” 

Dani laughs, and pats his cheek before sitting next to him on the edge of the musty couch. "I think you're finally starting to learn what being on a team means.” 

“I’ve been on  _ teams _ ,” he moans. 

“Okay,” she answers, drawing the word out. “A team that has your back.” 

“Yeah,” he breathes. 

Dani keeps an eye on him as the rest of the paramedics arrive and take over, breathing easy for a second. Looking up, she can see a little more light coming down, and the constant drizzle of rain has stopped.  _ Finally _ . 

  
  



End file.
